


Under the Mistletoe

by seducing_a_vampire



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Baz is annoying in uni lectures send tweet, Christmas, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Normal AU, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce is a Good Friend, mention of baz in therapy, mention of natasha's death, mordelia is an icon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28343640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seducing_a_vampire/pseuds/seducing_a_vampire
Summary: Working as a Harrods Christmas elf, uni student Simon Snow is used to dealing with crying children, hot cocoa crises, and gift wrapping fiascoes.He is, however, not at all prepared for a surprise encounter with a certain irritatingly posh prat from his Philosophy lecture. And especially not to learn that this prat has an adorable kid sister, even nicer hair than he remembered, and maybe— possibly— a heart?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 61
Kudos: 146
Collections: Winter Holiday Collection 2020





	1. An Elf's Encounter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunlightschadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlightschadow/gifts).



> Dear Sunny, you are lovely, and I hope you enjoy this fic!! 💕💕 Your prompt was so fun to work with!
> 
> A million thanks to Wolfy ([WolfyWordWeaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfyWordWeaver/pseuds/WolfyWordWeaver)) and Sora ([black_tea_blue_pens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_tea_blue_pens/pseuds/black_tea_blue_pens)) for invaluable beta-ing, cheerleading, and generally helping me turn this into an actual finished fic!

**SIMON**

I’ve never particularly cared about Christmas, but I can’t deny the magic of the season in London. 

It’s not that I’m anti-Christmas. I think few people are, actually, despite what some people’s outrage would have you believe. It’s just that I’ve never really had a reason to become invested in the holiday. 

But ever since I moved to London for uni, I let myself feel a bit entranced by the holiday spirit. I guess that’s partly how I ended up working as a Christmas elf at Harrods. Well, that, and my friend Penny practically threatened to end our friendship if I didn’t take this job with her. 

So, that’s how I find myself herding dozens of pink-cheeked kids through the store on December 19th, decked out in the most ridiculous red-and-white striped shirt, big billowing red trousers, and green jacket. This costume always reminds me a bit of my old primary school teacher, Professor Mage. He wore the strangest clothes— green tights, looked like Robin Hood. Even these outfits aren’t as bad as that.

Penny sneaks up behind me and tugs on the sleeve of my jacket. “Simon,” she hisses. “Stop _dawdling_.” 

I look up in surprise. “ _Dawdling_?” I had stopped to kneel down next to a little boy, about six or so, whose eyes looked particularly big and watery. He did _not_ want to go see Santa today. I can’t say I blame him. Our new Santa, Terry, is kind of a jerk. He acts nice enough around the kids, but he’s an old goat as soon as his shift is over.

“Yes, Simon. Hurry. Possilbelf wants us to go and finish the rest of the ribbon curls.” Her bright eyes are narrowed at me, and the red and green job-issued elf hat looks absolutely ridiculous perched on her wild purple hair. She turns to the boy and gives a big, would-be-kind smile that shows all her teeth, while her eyes flash over to me pointedly.

“Okay, Pen, let’s go,” I sigh, standing up and following her back to our employee room. 

An hour and seven thousand ribbon curls later, with an aching back from standing hunched over a table and throbbing fingers from the awkward way you have to hold the scissors to curl the ribbon, I finally exit the room.

“We’re taking our lunch break now!” I call out to Possibelf, who’s standing by the door watching carefully as the posh families walk through the entrance.

“Wait just a minute, you two!” she waves us over. “Simon, you never hung up the mistletoe this morning. Please complete that before you leave.” 

“Oh sh— shoot, I’m so sorry.”

I don’t mind too much, because it goes in my favorite spot in the store. There’s a big window up in the entranceway to Harrods' Christmas Grotto, and it overlooks the street below. You can look down and see holiday decorations: the great big red bows on the lampposts, the strings of lights that shine in the square at night. Even the bustling shoppers look a bit festive from above. 

I hang the mistletoe on the arch over this window, taking care to make sure it’s fastened securely, and then I go to meet Penny.

We walk together to take our lunch break— we always go to the Pret a Manger across the street. The pavement is still wet from this morning’s rain, and it’s a bit chilly, but after running around such a crowded room for so long, the cool air feels great. 

We’re about to step inside Pret when suddenly I notice a familiar bloke standing by the cash register. I let out an involuntary yelp and duck behind Penny, yanking her back from the door. 

“What is it, Simon?” she asks with just a hint of exasperation. She’s taken off her elf hat and takes advantage of our momentary pause to pull her hair back with a scrunchie.

“It’s _him_ ,” I say darkly. 

“Who is _him_?” She leans around the corner to peer inside. “That haughty Adam Driver-looking guy by the cash register?” 

“Yes. He’s the guy from my Philosophy seminar. The _obnoxious_ one.” 

I glare at him through the dirty glass window. He’s sitting at a table, wearing a dark charcoal coat. He’s got some sort of fancy checked scarf draped around his neck, so that his lower face is obscured below his sharp cheekbones. His soft-looking raven hair is especially shiny in the fluorescent light of the restaurant, not a strand out of place. Typical. I bet his ego just couldn’t take it if he didn’t have the best hair in the room.

Penny rolls her eyes. “Simon, just because someone participates in class, doesn’t make them obnoxious.”

“It’s not just that, Pen! I swear, he thinks he’s better than anyone, even the lecturer. And one time, he straight up laughed at something I said in class. Laughed! He was out to get me all term. I think he was plotting a way for me to fail.” 

Penny looks suspicious. _“Did_ you fail?”

“No! I did well on my last essay.” I bet Baz did better, though, I think bitterly. Prick. This lecture, European Literature and Philosophy, was one of the hardest courses I’ve taken in uni so far. I loved the books, but so many of the theories and trends all seem so nonsensical. The paradox of the absurd? Really?

“Okay, well the term is over, so there’s nothing to fret about now. Let’s just go to lunch. He won’t even notice you.” She drags me by my sleeve toward the door. 

**BAZ**

It’s freezing out and all I want is some hot tea and to be at home in front of the fire finishing _Wuthering Heights_. Instead, I’m in a fucking Pret a Manger in Knightsbridge, waiting for Mordelia to finish her lukewarm ham and cheese toastie. She’s a bit obsessed with them (heaven knows why) and I can’t help but oblige my little sister. At least I can get some half-decent tea here. 

When Daphne asked if I’d take Mordelia out for the afternoon, I couldn’t well refuse. I hardly spent any time at home this term with the course load I had, and I’ll admit that I missed my family. 

“Alright, little punk. Almost done?” She scrunches her tiny face at me in response, her forehead wrinkling behind her dark bangs. 

“Not yet,” she says firmly, looking down at the gnawed crusts left on her plate. I sigh and take a sip of my tea. The cafe is packed— the week before Christmas, everyone’s out doing their last minute shopping. A rush of cold air blows through the room every time the door opens. Out of the corner of my eye, I see flashes of bright red and green as two people walk through the door. 

“Elves!” Mordelia stage-whispers. “Baz, are they elves?” 

“Hush, they’re not elves, Mordie. They’re just—” I turn to face them and my jaw tightens. Is that… _Simon_? 

What in seven hells is he doing here? And in that outfit? For fuck’s sake, I think he’s the only person on earth who could look good even in those clothes. Mind you, it’s not like the clothes he usually wears to class are that much better, but at least you don’t need sunglasses to look at those. 

He’s facing away from our table, talking to the girl he came in with, who’s wearing the same absurd getup. 

My eyes follow the movement of Simon’s hand as he reaches up to run his fingers through his glorious curls, and then my gaze continues slowly down the length of his bizarre jacket and striped bottoms— “Baz?” Mordelia practically shouts this time. 

My eyes whip back to her. “What?” I say automatically as I instinctively smooth my already-perfect hair. 

“They’re just what? Not elves?” she pleads. 

Unfortunately her earlier announcement of my name caught Simon’s attention, and he’s looking at me now; I can see it in my peripheral vision, even as I try to stare at Mordelia and block out everything else. _Is he going to come over?_ In my stomach, a deranged sort of excitement battles a feeling that I’d rather a sinkhole swallow me up right now than have to make casual conversation with that man.

I tilt my head slightly to face him with my most bored expression and what I know to be a devastating lip curl. Simon swings his head wildly away from me, and I can see his throat move with the showiest swallow of all time. He’s blustering, shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot. His friend rolls her eyes and pushes him toward the register. 

I look quickly back at Mordelia, who I’m relieved to see had gotten tired of my behavior and resumed chewing the sad-looking crusts on her plate fastidiously. 

_Well, then_. Crisis averted. Simon and I will act like the two proper nineteen year olds we are and pretend we don’t know each other rather than have an awkward conversation in public. 

I suppose we don’t know each other, really. Not any further than you can know someone from sitting by them in lectures for one term. I acted like a dick in class trying to rid myself of a truly idiotic crush on the bumbling, growling boy who sat next to me with his wide blue eyes and streaks of sunshine shining in his tawny curls. As this little encounter has demonstrated, those efforts were fruitless. 

And now I’m fairly certain he thinks I’m an 'arrogant twat.' In fact, he would probably think I am so stuck up my own arse that the word 'twat' is too vulgar for my aristocratic lips to speak. (It is, in fact, but that’s besides the point.)

Simon’s curiosity and earnestness in class was so endearing. I was taking the class as a way to inject some life into my otherwise bland economics course load (my father’s idea). I had to apply for special permission to register for it, but it was worth it. I love philosophy, and I’ve been studying it on my own practically since I could read. I feel closer to Aristotle and Kant than I do to most people I know. 

I noticed Simon as soon as he walked in (late) on our first day. He seemed so— alive. Like he was crackling with energy, like he could just go off at any second. He sat at the chair next to mine, smelling like buttery popcorn. At once, alarm bells rang out in my brain from his nearness.

The lecturer was irritated at his tardiness (“ _Snow, Simon_ , I presume,” he intoned as Simon bounded into the room), and he called Simon out for a number of difficult questions throughout the class. Each time, Simon fumbled over his words, spluttering and turning bright red before failing to come up with a satisfactory answer. When I chanced a sideways look at his notebook, though, I saw his notes were detailed and accurate, even if the penmanship was abysmal.

When the lecturer dismissed us and students began clearing up their materials to leave, Simon turned to me and smiled. My mouth went dry, and I stared at him, counting the freckles splattered across his face. _How can one face fit so many freckles?_

“Hey, nice to meet you! I didn’t catch your name. Any chance you could let me see your notes from the first bit of the lecture? I got a bit distracted on the way here, and then I accidentally wound up in the wrong hall, and…” He trailed off and smiled good-naturedly. 

My therapist would call it _attachment issues stemming from my mother’s early demise which altered my ability to form and maintain healthy relationships,_ but I think it’s just being a prat. Whatever the explanation, I have a tendency to run from anything that resembles friendship. My only close connections are family members or friends from primary school— in other words, people who have been around for far too long to cut out now.

So, this stocky boy sitting far too close to me, blinking his perfectly ordinary blue eyes, smiling innocently and asking me for help, was far too much for me to handle. In an instant, I was fourteen again, bullying my old classmates in lessons just to make it especially clear how much smarter I was than them.

For a moment or two I think I just stared at Simon blankly, then my face hardened.

Before I could stop myself, I heard the words, “I’m not sure you need _my_ notes. As evidenced by your performance this morning, I’d say you’re quite a philosophy expert, aren’t you, Snow?” come out of my mouth, dripping with the most cutting sarcasm I have to offer. Immediately he froze, scowled. 

“What’s your problem, man?” he growled. 

“If I were you, I’d just worry about your own problems,” I replied, silently cursing myself with every word I spoke. Before I could say anything else, I grabbed my book and walked out the door.

Back in the present, Mordelia clears her throat dramatically, shaking me out of my embarrassing reverie. She brandishes her empty plate with a flourish. (This child is the slowest eater imaginable.)

“Wow, great job, Mordie. Good thing I didn’t blink or I would’ve missed how quickly you gobbled that food,” I say, and the sarcasm does not go unnoticed by my sister. 

“Thank you for the food, Tyrannus,” she says in a sing-song voice, using my first name just to irritate me. 

“Yes, yes, now let’s adjourn, shall we?” I clear up the rest of the rubbish and take Mordelia’s hand as we make our way out of the Pret, sneaking one last glance at my beautiful ex-classmate in his ridiculous costume, who’s still pointedly not looking my way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel compelled to state that I know I bent the rules of uni to suit my authorial purposes. pls forgive me, it was all in the name of love.


	2. Advanced Ethical Philosophy

**SIMON**

I was distracted throughout our entire lunch break, pissing Penny off with my constant huffs of annoyance in Baz’s general direction. I refused to actually look at him, which Penny really did not understand. 

But I just didn’t know what I would say to him! Or rather, I did know. I would stammer out something incoherent, he would cock an eyebrow at me and say something devastating, and I would end the exchange with a meaningless “fuck off.” 

Do we really need to go through that again? It’s not like we’re friends. We _were_ classmates. And now that seminar is over. I do _not_ need to keep someone like Baz in my life. 

Penny eventually gave up trying to get me to talk to her, and we finished up our food quickly. We only have thirty minutes for our break anyway, so we don’t have a ton of time for chit chat. 

Soon, we’re walking back into Harrods. The warm air and overpowering floral perfume scent hit us right as the doors blow open. We make our way up the elegantly carpeted stairs into the Christmas grotto, with the usual chaos of kids running around and shoppers squeezing through and elves rearranging gifts and decorations. 

Penny’s talking again, going on about one of her essays from this term, some linguistics thing she had to research (“—the way that _some_ idioms can translate across languages and cultures, but others simply can’t be understood in the truest sense—”), but this time she seems content to let me stay silent.

I interrupt Penny to remind put her elf hat back on, and as I’m adjusting mine in one of the ornate mirrors, I spot a tall figure in a charcoal coat and a checked scarf by the train set. My stomach lurches, but I remind myself that it’s not an unusual sight. I swear every other man walking through this room is wearing a charcoal coat and a checked scarf. It’s like it’s the official uniform of posh London men.

But then the coat turns and I see the familiar sharp cheekbones and elegantly crooked nose of the man who’s wearing it.

“Fucking hell,” I groan loudly. An elderly lady looks up, startled, and gives me an admonishing stare. I nod back at her, trying to look apologetic. “Happy holidays, ma’am.” She shakes her head and walks away. 

“Simon, what is going on? Not— oh, is that your friend again?” At last Penny sees Baz, too. She flashes me an infuriating smile. “You know, he’s kinda fit, Simon. Maybe you should just talk to him. Whatever terrible ills he befell upon you in Philosophy are over. And look, he’s with his sister or someone, so he can’t be too mean to you in front of her.” 

I hadn’t noticed before, but there is a little girl trailing behind Baz. Maybe it’s his sister.

“First of all, he’s not my _friend_ ,” I shoot back. “And so what if he’s fit? That doesn’t change anything.” 

I mean, I’d have to be blind to not see that Baz was fit. Practically everyone in our seminar was pining over him at one point or another, trying to sit next to him. He always sat next to me, though, just so he could look at my notes condescendingly and make some snide comment. It’s almost like he enjoyed terrorizing me more than he enjoyed a shot at pulling someone else. Stupid git. 

“Sure, Simon. Let’s get to work. But you know that you’re probably going to have to talk to him eventually.” 

As it turned out, Penny was right. It wasn’t Baz who spoke to me first though, it was the little girl with him. I hadn’t looked at her too closely before— I was too busy being irritated at Baz himself— but now I can see she’s a pretty cute kid. 

I’m good with kids, I always tried to help out the younger ones at the care home. This one seems to be about eight years old, with a shock of midnight black hair cut into blunt bangs across her forehead. She’s petite, but she seems feisty. She keeps pulling Baz along from display to display, scampering on ahead of him, yanking on his hand. She’s wearing black tights, a dark red dress, and shiny black shoes. Just as goth as Baz, then. As posh as him, too. 

“Are you a real elf?” she calls to me when I try to sneak past them, carrying a refill on candy canes for the kids in Santa’s line. “I know Father Christmas isn’t real. But elves are in Lord of the Rings, too. And I think they could be real. Are you an elf? Why aren’t your ears pointy? And why do you have so many freckles, is that an elf thing?” 

My head rings with all her questions, and I can’t help but let out a laugh. I set down the box of candy canes and kneel to her level. “‘Lo, there,” I smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. What’s your name?” 

“My name is Mordelia Persephone Grimm. And this is my brother, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. What’s your name?” 

Tyrannus Basilton… I cough to cover my laugh. Baz is shooting dagger eyes at his sister. 

“Those are quite big names for you and your brother. My name is Simon Snow. And I’ll tell you something else if you promise not to tell anyone else.” 

Mordelia nods seriously.

“I am a real elf. But the other workers— they’re just pretend elves. I got special permission to be here, so I can show them how to act properly. Listen, this is a massive secret. I’m trusting you to keep this between us.”

Mordelia’s eyes are narrowed, like she doesn’t quite believe me. I chance a look at her brother, who’s staring at me with an expression of disbelief that quickly morphs to boredom when he sees me glancing up at him.

I continue speaking, “Now, real elves don’t have pointy ears. That’s a silly myth. And you seem far too smart to believe those, right?” 

“She’s not as smart as she thinks she is,” Baz speaks up for the first time, looking at Mordelia with such warmth it can’t be hidden by his usual veneer of sarcasm. 

I smile at him without thinking. He seems startled to see it, but gives me a small grin back. I’m a bit unsettled by this friendly encounter, but I remind myself that I have to be decent to him while he’s a customer. 

“We saw you at Pret,” Mordelia pipes back up again. “But Baz wouldn’t tell me if you were a real elf. He was acting awfully weird, like maybe he was afraid of elves, so I gave up on him.”

I wonder why he didn’t say anything to me at the restaurant. At least, Penny was right about one thing. He clearly doesn’t want to be mean in front of Mordelia. He’s looking awkward now, and I could swear his cheeks might even be turning a faint pink.

“Well, Miss Mordelia,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “I’ve met your scaredy-cat brother before. So he should know already that he doesn’t have any reason to be afraid of me.” 

Mordelia looks between the two of us, astonished. 

“Relax, little punk. We were in a seminar together at uni,” Baz replies, ruffling her hair. “Even elves need to learn philosophy at some point.”

I’m about to ask Baz if that means he actually thought I did— learn philosophy, that is— when I see Possibelf looking at me from across the room and frantically mouthing, “Candy canes!” 

“Oi, right,” I say, not sure why I feel somewhat disappointed. “I’ve got to run— urgent elf mission— but it was lovely to have met you, Mordelia. Will you be visiting Father Christmas later?”

“I suppose, to keep up appearances, but we both know he’s not the real deal,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Goodbye, Simon Snow!” 

I look at Baz, who gives me a somewhat uncomfortable smile. “Well, bye,” I say lamely, and walk back toward Santa with my candy canes, not sure why I feel a bit disappointed. 

**BAZ**

At least this explains the outfit. He’s not wearing the god-awful getup as a fun sort of fashion trend— he’s wearing it because he’s participating in the capitalist commodification of Christmas. Which I fully support, by the way. 

The encounter with Snow has me burning up, which is a rare occurance. I unwind my cashmere scarf from my neck and set it on a table nearby (filled with decorously displayed Christmas gifts), fanning myself furiously while still attempting to look composed. 

I know Simon has a job already; I’ve seen him at the coffee shop on campus before. I wonder if he had to take on this job on top of the other one, or if he quit the coffee shop position. They probably recruited him for this elf job. Goodness knows he has the temperament for a Christmas elf. He flashes smiles at everyone all day long like they’re going out of style. Although, this was the first time since we’ve met that I’ve gotten one directed to me on purpose. 

I watch him walk away to the queue of Santa-visitors in the other room, the white bauble on top of his elf hat bobbing slightly with each step. 

“Did you really take a seminar with him, Baz?” Mordelia sounds skeptical. 

“Yes, little punk. But it doesn’t matter. It’s done now, and I’m sure I won’t see him again.” 

She frowns a bit at me. “He was nice. And I liked his freckles.” 

“Me too, Mordie,” I sigh. “Now let’s see how bad this queue looks for Santa. Daphne would never forgive me if we left this madhouse without getting a photo of you up there with the jolly old man.”

The queue turns out to be, predictably, rather awful. There are two crying children behind us who keep kicking our legs, and it seems every family in London is ahead of us. And Simon’s already skipped off to some other elf task by the time we get into the main room, so I can’t even reward myself for excellent big brother duties by staring at him. 

**SIMON**

Baz and Mordelia join the Santa queue right after I drop off the candy canes. I wonder if they wanted to avoid me again, just like at Pret a Manger. I suppose if they really wanted to avoid me, they could just leave. I can’t exactly leave— I mean, I work here. 

But I think I made a pretty good impression on Mordelia, so I don’t imagine she’d want to run off and leave me without Baz. And even Baz… well, it was probably just being with his sister, but he didn’t seem as disgusted with me as usual. 

It’s funny thinking about Baz with a kid sister. I never would have imagined him as a brother from our course together. He seems tender with her, in his own way. 

It hits me that I don’t actually know very much about him. Just that he’s pretty good at philosophy and that he’s an arsehole. _He’s_ sometimes _an arsehole_ , I correct myself. Because he really wasn’t one, just now. So I guess I only knew one and a half things about him.

I wander off to find Penny and see if she has any more tasks for us to do. That’s usually how I spend my hours at work. Sure enough, Possibelf has instructed her to refill all the hot chocolate stations, so I trail behind Penny as she works through the necessary goods. I step in with marshmallows when she calls “Mallow!”, peppermint sticks when she calls “Mint!”, and caramel sauce bottles when she calls “Caramel!” 

It’s a bit like working under a drill sergeant, working a job with Penny. She’s dead smart and capable. She could do any job she wanted to, but she insisted that she needed a “brain break” with this job for the holidays. Not that I think her brain is really taking a break when she’s taking it so seriously.

“So, I talked to Baz,” I start hesitantly, while we’re walking from one station to the next. 

“Baz? Who’s Baz?” 

“Baz. My classmate. From philosophy? From Pret.” 

“Oh, evil demon Baz? With the adorable little sister and the cheeks that turned red every time he looked at you? And the soft, shiny hair that you kept staring at during lunch when you thought I wasn’t looking?”

I almost drop the marshmallows I’m holding. Penny looks back at me and smirks at my open mouth. 

“Oh, is that news to you?” she teases. 

“Penny, what about my constant stream of complaints about this bloke all semester makes you think that I’ve been staring at him _longingly_?” 

She shrugs. “Sometimes people are in denial about their feelings. So they cover them up with allegations of distaste. Hate is awfully close to love, you know.” 

“ _Love_? Penny, you can’t be serious. And anyway, he hates me.” 

“Hmmm. I saw you talking to him, Si. And I saw him at lunch. He sure doesn’t act like he hates you. Anyway, remember what you said first attracted you to Agatha?”

“Agatha? We’ve haven’t dated for years.” 

I have no idea where she’s going with this. Agatha and Baz are nothing alike.

“Yeah, but back in school. You always said you liked that she didn’t sugarcoat things. She called you out on your crap, and she teased you. It sounds like that’s what Baz does. Think about it.”

I stare at her. Is it possible? Have I ever considered Baz in that way before? It’s ridiculous, I’m sure, but I’ll humor Penny just for a minute.

I think about Baz. His voice dripping with sarcasm, responding to a question I made in seminar. His superiority complex always making him write twice the recommended word count for our essays. His rainstorm-gray eyes narrowed at me, sparkling, from the seat next to me in class. The way I would catch a faint whiff of something woodsy and citrusy when he flipped his hair. (I smelled it again, talking to him just now.) That one pair of jeans he would wear at least once a week that hugged his arse like… okay. Maybe Penny is right. Shit.

**BAZ**

We’ve been standing in the queue for 40 minutes now, and we’re finally almost to the front. Mordelia is getting antsy. A few minutes ago, she ran out of stories about the drama in her ballet class, which had kept us occupied for a while. Now she’s quiet, but she keeps hopping back and forth between her right and left foot, her black bow bouncing up and down with her. 

For my part, I’m covertly looking back into the other room, trying to see if I can spot Snow. I’m hopeless. I had just convinced myself that I was successful in my endeavors to tie the barbed wire tightly around my heart, and then I watched him laughing with my sister and I’m right back where I started at the beginning of the term. 

I spy him at last. He’s with the same girl he was with at lunch. She strikes me as a rather take-charge person: pointing as she moves about, nodding to the other employees, tidying and doing whatever other elf tasks there are. Simon doesn’t seem to mind; he keeps running around behind her.

I hate how adorable he is in that damn elf costume. It’s not fair. 

Mordelia tugs on my coat. “Baz, how much longer will this take?” 

“I’m not sure, kiddo. Not much longer. But goodness knows they could do with a more efficient system here. Father would be climbing out of his skin by now. Have you decided what you’re going to tell the old man when you get up there?”

She gives me a look that I have seen on Daphne many times. “You know it doesn’t matter. He’s not really Santa.” 

I raise my eyebrows. “Well, do you really want to take that chance?” 

I’m momentarily distracted as I notice Snow walking through the archway, seemingly to take on his shift as Santa’s helper. He’s carrying a stack of papers which he begins handing out to each child in the queue. 

“I suppose you’re right, Basil. Maybe I should have a plan, just in case. Do you think Simon would know what to say to a fake Santa? He’s an elf. Hey, Simon!” my accursed sister calls out to Snow.

He looks around at Mordelia’s words, and smiles when he spots the source. He quickly finishes passing out the rest of the papers, walks over to us, and when he reaches us, his eyes flicker up to me several times before focusing back down on Mordelia. 

I notice a bead of sweat trickling down below his hat, and I briefly imagine licking it off and kissing his forehead. (Because I’m disturbed, ask anyone.)

“Well, how can I assist you, Miss Mordelia?” he says with a flourish.

Mordelia engages him in a very dramatic explanation of her plight, but I’m not listening. I’m fully staring now, watching as he _hmm_ s and _oh!_ s his way through the conversation. I half expect him to turn on me, to start cussing me out, job be damned, and tell me what an arrogant prick he thinks I am. 

His (perfectly ordinary) blue eyes dart back to mine once or twice more throughout Mordelia’s monologue. I’m suddenly very aware of my posture, and even though I know I’m already standing straight as an arrow, I square my shoulders self-consciously. _Why does he keep looking at me?_

I almost think I see his cheeks redden from my constant surveillance. I must be making him nervous. I can’t imagine why four months of rudeness in class never phased him but now he’s downright _blushing_ at my innocent (well, mostly innocent) stare. I would manage to fall for such a bloody numpty.

I tune back into the conversation just to hear Snow say, “— something real that you want to get, now. He’s just pretending, but he still has some pretty good connections. Mind you, make it something cool.”

Mordelia gives Simon a solemn nod, as though she’s taking orders from the queen herself, and Simon nods back approvingly. 

“Oh!” Simon blurts out. “I forgot to give _you_ your paper, Mordelia.” He hands her a paper which appears to be a holiday word search. He digs around in his pocket for a shiny red pencil and holds it out for her as well. Her eyes light up as she dives into the activity.

Snow and I look at each other, and the silence is filled with a strange sort of anticipation.

“Well..,” Simon says awkwardly. “What— what courses are you taking next term, Baz?” He winces a bit as the words come out. I raise my eyebrows. Small talk? Is that what we’re doing now?

“A smattering of business lectures. And then Advanced Ethical Philosophy and Moral Reasoning. Shall I get a pen to spell that out for you so you might be able to understand it?” I let the last part slip out before I can stop it, but to my astonishment Snow is grinning. 

“So tell me, is it _ethical_ to be a complete di—dingus to your classmate?”

“Depends on the classmate. Kant had great sympathy for the burdens of the intellectual elite in poor company,” I say dryly. 

Snow is still grinning, and he doesn’t seem to have a retort. My brain gets kind of stuck on his smile for a few seconds. 

Usually around this time, he’d be spluttering out his favorite exit line: “Fuck off, Baz.” (Simple, effective.) 

I suppose he can’t cuss me out at work. That must be why he’s even still here, engaged in the longest conversation we’ve ever had. Why he’s looking at me with something other than anger or disgust in his eyes. It’s— customer service.

Speaking of which— “Don’t you have a job to do, Snow?” I try to inject some coolness in my voice. 

He looks around for a second, surprised. “I’m doing my job right now, Baz. And actually—” I realize at the same time as he does that we’re finally at the front of the queue. “— it’s time to take this lady up to the man with the white beard.”

He takes Mordelia’s arm and escorts her up the grand stairs leading to Santa. I wait below, ready with my phone so I can snap a picture to text Daphne. Proof of my status as a premiere older brother. Never mind that she’ll doubtless want me to spend 40 pounds on a staff photographer photo as well. 

I smirk a bit as I watch Mordelia transform into her most graceful self. Snow’s standing off to the side, pulling faces at Mordelia as she poses prettily, so that she loses her composure a few times.

When she’s finished, Snow walks her back down to me. He hasn’t been giving the other children this level of attention. He must really have taken a shine to Mordelia.

I reach out my hand to give Mordelia a formal handshake: the Grimm-approved method of demonstrating approval. 

“Well done, lass. Truly a corking performance,” I say in my most theatrical voice, which earns me a giggle from Mordelia and another full-on—eye contact and everything—grin from Snow. The sheer shock value and the stunning brilliance of said smile stuns me enough to momentary muteness.

I stare at the mole just above his lip. I don’t want to say goodbye to his face just yet. He’s standing next to me now; our arms are almost touching, and I feel my arms tingle in reaction to his nearness. _Say something, anything._

Mordelia’s taken out her word search again, and she’s no longer at all interested in anything I have to say.

I clear my throat and manage to choke out: “So, what, ah, does your course load look like next term, Snow?” 

I wince inwardly. This time _he_ raises his eyebrows at me, although he’s not nearly as adept at it as I am. The effect is far more endearing than intimidating. 

“Well,” he starts, “A bunch of low-grade English seminars, nothing _you_ would appreciate, I’m sure. Oh, and I managed to talk my way into some economics lecture that looked cool. Economics and… Public Policy, or something?” 

My heart stutters. “Public policy?” I hear myself say, as if from across the room. “With Professor Strum?”

“Er… maybe? It’s on Mondays and Wednesdays, I think.” 

“I’m, uh.” I clear my throat again, which seems redundant, but there you are. “I’m in that lecture, as well.” 

I try to avoid his eyes, but I’m soon pulled back to them like a magnet. He’s gazing at me with an almost devilish look on his face. He’s still standing much too close. I take a step back.

Suddenly Mordelia pipes up: “Baz, what’s _mistletoe_?”

Snow coughs, and I feel my face flushing. My sister’s looking up at me expectantly. 

“It’s a plant, Mordie,” I say in a stilted voice. “A Christmas plant. Often has pretty red berries on it. Daphne sometimes puts it up in our kitchen.” 

“There’s some over by the entrance,” Snow says. He’s still looking at me, but then he blinks and looks down at Mordelia. “You can see it on your way out. I put it up earlier today.” 

And then at that comment, my imagination goes off of its own accord: Mistletoe. Snow, in his ridiculous elf costume, hanging mistletoe. Snow, standing under the mistletoe— with me. Me next to him. Facing him. Leaning in… our breaths mingling…. 

I’m fucked. I need to get out of here, away from any mention of mistletoe and the warm presence of a certain elf.

“Right, well, it was nice to see you Snow,” I say courteously. “I expect I’ll see you around. Very well. Happy Christmas. Mordelia, biscuits are waiting for us to decorate at home. Time to leave.” 

Snow looks bewildered for a moment, his eyebrows puckering together. He bites his lip, but then seems to accept my abrupt announcement. “Right, goodbye Baz. Goodbye Miss Mordelia!” 

She runs at him for a hug, and he obliges willingly. 

“Bye, Simon Snow! I pinky-promise I won’t tell anyone your secret!” 

He gives a half-smile and waves affectionately at her. I turn, grabbing Mordelia’s hand and walking us briskly out of the danger zone.


	3. Better than Fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last real chapter, as the last one is a just a lil epilogue.

**SIMON**

My shift is almost over, and most of the customers have cleared out. I’m in the main room clearing up random bits of rubbish and items that got moved around from the gift tables. 

I’m trying to distract myself with work, but I can’t stop thinking about Baz. Penny was right. I keep thinking she’s got to be wrong about something eventually, but it wasn’t today.

Earlier, I could barely look at him without thinking about how much I wanted to wind my hand in his hair, push him against the wall, and smash my face on his face. To be honest, I’m not totally sure how I didn’t realize this before. 

I probably shouldn’t like him. I mean, he was a jerk to me for a while. One civil exchange and a few glimpses of him being soft toward his sister doesn’t change that. But I can’t exactly help my _attraction._ And maybe there’s a chance he would repent. Today he seemed less like a monster and more just like someone who didn’t always know _how_ to be nice.

I still don’t know if Penny was right about the other thing, though. If Baz feels the same way about me. He practically sprinted out of the store without so much as a backwards glance, which doesn’t seem promising. 

But sometimes— the way he looked at me— I don’t know. This is a big mess. _I’m_ a big mess.

The only good thing is that, by some divine Christmas miracle, I’ll actually have planned encounters with him next term. I’ll probably be just as big of an idiot in Economics as I was in Philosophy, but at least I can hold myself back from outward aggression. 

I should have made a move today. I’m afraid when we go back to seeing each other at uni, he’ll go back to being cold and distant. 

I have no idea how to impress Baz, really. He’s posh and fit, and I’m definitely not. A sort of humorless laugh escapes my mouth when I imagine the picture of the two of us talking today: 

I’m dressed up like a fucking elf, and he’s got his long imposing coat on, expensive-looking sunglasses tucked in his pocket (in London, in December. Who needs sunglasses in London in December?), and that fancy scarf draped around his neck.

Wait— that scarf. As I walk by the last toy table, I see a flash of a checked pattern folded neatly next to a shiny toy truck. I pick up the scarf and instantly catch the whiff of citrus woodsiness that I associate with Philosophy. 

The same heady smell that distracted me earlier today while I was talking to— 

**BAZ**

I’ve been distracted all afternoon by the same set of blue eyes. Simon Snow is a nightmare, but I can’t get him out of my head. 

My siblings and I are sitting in the dining room with Daphne, half-decorated biscuits strewn across the table. Daphne’s laughing at the smudges of red and green icing that cover the twins’ faces.

My stepmother’s rather relaxed about this sort of thing, especially when it’s ‘family bonding.’ And indeed, it is. Even Father comes in between business calls to admire our artistry.

“I met one of Basil’s friends today,” Mordelia announces, as though she’s making a grand statement to Parliament.

“Really, dear? That’s nice,” Daphne beams at me across the table, and I can’t help but feel a bit patronized. I do have _some_ friends. I know I’m cynical about Dev and Niall sometimes, but they are good lads. 

“And unfortunately, Mordelia interrogated my _friend_ about his freckles just minutes after their meeting,” I say with an air of great disappointment. 

“Mordelia Persephone!” Daphne exclaims. Mordelia glares at me.

I know the allegation of Mordelia’s rudeness will keep them occupied for a few minutes, so I let my mind wander to my apparent ‘friend.’

I recall how warm I felt after my encounter with Simon. Like we were both crackling with the same electricity. It’s as if he was filled to the brim with some sort of magic, and he chose to share it with me.

Every time he stood too close or brushed his arm against mine— Simon’s nearness made me feel like I was standing next to an open fire. 

I sigh as I remember carefully setting that scarf on the table, fanning myself furiously, and very much _not_ picking it back up afterwards. 

I was a bit too preoccupied with— well, embarrassing myself in front of the boy I like. Christ. It’s like I’m back in primary school.

I briefly contemplate letting the scarf live out its last days in a Harrods Lost and Found. No doubt some employee would snipe it after a few weeks and look ravishing. I can’t imagine Simon picking it up, but it would compliment his tawny curls wonderfully.

Even that awful Father Christmas actor wearing my Burberry scarf might be better than having to slink back to face Simon. I suppose I could wait and ask him about it at uni. It would be a good opportunity for conversation. Could keep me from letting out my cruelest impulses and self-sabotaging my romantic interests.

Still, Daphne did spend quite a bit of money on this scarf last Christmas. The plaid is a bit garish these days, to be honest, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that. I always make a point to wear it when I’m home. 

Was there any chance I hadn’t completely ruined my chances with Simon today? Any chance we could try again next term, with me not being a complete arsehole? 

The vision of him hanging up that mistletoe floats in my mind again. The string lights blinking among the holly and the golden bulbs, letting a soft glow fall over his radiant smile. 

I suddenly stand up from the table, my mind made up. 

“Daphne, I’m headed out!” I hesitate. “Don’t wait up.” 

**SIMON**

I’m doing it again. _Dawdling_. Penny always calls me out on it, especially at work. I can’t help but get distracted sometimes— what good are ribbon curls and fancy garlands when a cute kid needs me to talk them through their Christmas wish list, or when the full joy of the holiday season in London is bustling in the street below?

That’s what I’m looking at now. I’m standing by the window where I hung the mistletoe earlier, staring out at the evening. 

It’s a stunning sight. The people don’t even look like people; they just look like bundles of dark coats moving through the crowded streets. I can see store windows lit up with brightly colored holiday displays. Garland heavy under the weight of ornaments is strung across the doors of cafes and shops, illuminated by the glow of the lampposts.

The scene below is beautiful, but I can barely focus on it right now, because I’m still pissed at myself for how I screwed things up with Baz today. 

I know I shouldn’t care, because this morning I would have said that he was the human equivalent to the feeling you get when you sit down in a public toilet just to realize there’s no toilet paper. 

But I guess I don’t actually feel that way. So now, I barely even see the rainy London evening below. Instead, my mind fixates on Baz’s stupid nice-smelling hair and the look in his eyes when he teases Mordelia and the funny way the right side of his mouth quirks up when something I say surprises him. It’s like I’m in a fucking Adele music video.

Damn Penny’s wisdom. 

When I first found it, I took his scarf back into the employee room with the rest of my stuff, carefully folding and re-folding it a few times. I imagined bringing it to our first lecture together next term, setting it on the chair next to me— and then I realized what a terrible, idiotic, ridiculous idea that was. 

I put it in the lost and found box instead. He probably won’t even realize he forgot it. I’ll let our manager deal with it.

I’m just thinking I should probably cut my angsty ruminations short and head back to work soon when someone walks into the room. It’s a bit too late for customers to come in— some are still finishing up their shopping, but Terry is gone, and there’s not much time left to make the admission price worth it.

I turn to tell them to come back another day, but then my gaze falls upon a familiar face, a hesitant smile, and the same soft-looking hair I’ve been thinking about all day.

Baz and I blink at each other for a minute, my mind completely blank, until he finally says, “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.” 

He’s fidgeting with the lapel of his coat. I suddenly feel very conscious of my poofy red trousers and ridiculous striped shirt.

“Yes, I work until nine,” I say. I try to inject some coolness into my voice, but I’m not sure if it’s successful. 

“Ah. Well, I think I may have left my scarf here earlier. I don’t know whether you managed to retrieve it?” His voice is formal, distant— nothing at all like the easy conversation from earlier, and my temper suddenly flares up.

“Ah, your _scarf_. Are you sure you can trust someone like me to handle something as complicated as that? Perhaps I should find someone more skilled in such sensitive intellectual matters.” 

I tried to play it as a joke, but the sarcastic tone slips out much harsher than I intend. Realizing he’s just here for his £400 scarf made me feel small and insignificant, and, and I’m not in the mood for that from anyone, no matter how nice his hair is. 

I’m about to turn to actually grab his scarf— I’m ready for him to be out of this store and out of my head— but he stops me.

“No,” he says suddenly. Loudly. “No,” he says a bit more softly now. “You’re not an idiot. I mean, sometimes you are a bit of a nightmare. And your penmanship is abysmal. And you’re not a terribly punctual person. But that’s not—” He’s rambling. I stare at him. He sighs. “Look. I was— I _am—_ an arse, alright?” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

Is this an apology? From Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch? It’s close to one, anyway. I search his stormy eyes for any sign of a joke, buy I just see pleading. Something like hope bubbles up in my stomach.

“Hey, I threw it right back to you. I —”

He shakes his head slightly. “No, I started it. It was wrong. I make— I make shit decisions. Especially when—” He trails off. His voice was near inaudible before but now it gets stronger, and he lifts his face up to meet my eyes square on. “Listen. I like this. I like talking to you. And — I like. Well, you.” He sighs once more. “I don’t want to fight, Simon.”

It’s the first time he’s said my first name, and I love the sound of it on his lips so much I hear it echoing like a symphony in my head. _I don’t want to fight, Simon._ Well, me neither.

I grin. “You’re a right mess, you know that?” 

He scowls at me, and I relish watching his face shift, his lips curling down, his dark eyebrows furrowing. Baz’s face was made for pouting. And now I can actually let myself enjoy the view.

“You _are_. But that’s okay. I think you’re an arrogant wanker sometimes. And you’re kind of a snob. But you’re not a monster. And you’re also— well, you’re pretty cool. And you seem like a decent big brother, which is nice. And when you ramble on about how sorry you are for being mean to me, your cheeks turn a little pink, and it’s cute, and I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”

While I was talking, I watched as his eyes widened and the right side of his mouth quirked up, but now he shakes his head and says, “Simon, that’s nice, but I don’t know if you realize—” 

“Baz,” I interrupt, “I don’t want to fight either. I like this better than fighting.”

Baz’s eyes narrow, but there’s a softness in them, too. He walks a few steps closer to me.

“What’s _this_?”

I blink. “I don’t know.” I swallow. “But, I’d like to find out.”

We both fall quiet as Baz finally closes the distance and looks around. I can feel his gaze taking in my outfit, the decorations and the toys’ displays. 

“Mistletoe,” I say at last. It’s barely a whisper. His eyebrows jerk up at the word, and he lifts his head up to stare at the green sprig that’s hanging directly above us. The glow from the twinkly lights around us is soft on Baz’s face.

We’re so close that I practically _feel_ his face flush. “Can I try something?” I breathe. He’s gazing straight into my eyes, and my scalp tingles as he nods. I swallow again, hard. 

“You have the world’s showiest swallow,” he murmurs scathingly— affectionately?— before I take him by the shoulders and press my lips against his.

My brain freezes for just a second at the contact, and then it seems to whir into overdrive. Every sensation is hitting me at once— his cold lips on mine, hesitant for just a second before responding hungrily. His hands find their way to my back, then my shoulders, then rest on my biceps. Every point of contact is burning. I laugh breathily, and he dives back in with relish. 

His fingers are caressing my face now, lightly, tenderly. I shiver as I feel the pads of his thumbs brush against my cheek. 

“A long time,” Baz whispers.

“Hm?”

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” He smiles.

The twinkly lights still shimmer in the mistletoe above us, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more entranced by the holiday spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to imagine that they forgot all about Baz's scarf after this, so Terry the goat/Santa ended up nabbing it from the lost and found anyway. Sad.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> snuck in one more of sunny's prompts <3 
> 
> a few hundred more words of fluff, as a treat

**BAZ**

“Baz, how much longer will you be working?” 

I roll my eyes. My boyfriend is many things, but patient is not one of them.

“Simon, you’ve asked me that every ten minutes since we sat down. If you stop interrupting me, it won’t take as long.” 

He makes a ridiculous face, very nearly _pouting_ , and I have to stop myself from letting my grin loose.

“And anyway,” I continue seriously, “Don’t you have work to do, too?” 

“I’ve already finished. Professor Strum said my first draft was great, and I don’t need to write another.” He smirks at me, and his eyes flash with a challenge. 

“Very well. Pick a movie for us to watch, then. I’ll be done soon.” 

Twenty minutes later, I finally look up from my computer and see Simon wrapped up in a giant red blanket like a burrito on the sofa, scrolling through some nonsense on his phone. Practically every square centimeter of his body is covered, even up over the tip of his nose.

It’s been a couple of months since Simon and I started dating. I’d had enough hints of Daphne tactfully indicating that it was time I took him home to meet my family, so we came to stay with my parents for the weekend.

Mordelia was thrilled, of course. She talked his ear off for an eon before I dragged him away to my bedroom, insisting that we had homework to complete. Which was true, even if Simon thought I had ulterior motives. 

Although, those ulterior motives might be creeping back into my mind now. I walk over to join him on the sofa, and he looks up with obvious pleasure. A few months of being on the receiving end of Simon’s unbridled smiles, and each one is still radiant enough to stun me for a moment or two.

“Aren’t you _hot_?” I ask incredulously. This man is usually a furnace. I cannot believe he’s comfortable with a seemingly endless length of red sherpa wrapped around his body.

Simon looks a bit sheepish and mumbles something incoherent. He sighs when I raise an eyebrow at him, and he finally says, “It smells like you.” 

This time I can’t stop my ridiculous grin from breaking free. I inch closer to him on the sofa and pull the blanket up from where it’s tucked so neatly under his legs, letting my fingers linger for a moment on his thigh.

“Christ, Simon. You really are burning up.” He flashes me a devilish smile and a wink, and I huff a bit as I wrap the blanket around my shoulders too. 

We face each other now, the blanket stretched out around both of us. He reaches out for my hand and strokes it gently with his thumb. 

I lean forward to rest my forehead against his, and our noses touch. His eyes are wide, meeting my eye contact unflinchingly, and his smile is easy. We linger in the softness of that moment, and when he pushes his chin forward to meet my willing lips, it’s slow and lazy. 

“What movie did you pick?” I ask, a bit breathily, after a minute. 

“Well, I’m not actually sure we should put a movie on.” 

My eyebrows quirk up. “That sounds excellent,” I murmur, running my hand down his arm.

“No, I mean—” He’s blushing now. “I promised Mordelia we’d play Monopoly with her.” 

———-

Not even twenty minutes into the game, Simon manages to get ruined over a massive amount of rent for landing on Mordelia’s hotel-crowned Park Place property. Strange as it sounds, looking at him across the table, I think for the first time with total clarity: I really do love Simon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HC: mordelia is an absolute legend at monopoly
> 
> thank you SO MUCH for reading!!! <3 xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr!](https://seducing-a-vampire.tumblr.com/)


End file.
